


La Chanson d’un Ange

by magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)



Series: The Consolations of Philosophy [6]
Category: Daft Punk
Genre: AU, Existentialism, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food Porn, Human!Daft Punk, Label AU, Light-Hearted, Literary References, M/M, Magical Realism, NSFW, Philosophy, Slash, Slice of Life, maybe???, philosophical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:30:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/magistralucis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world keeps on turning, the river of life continues to flow - and during one fine afternoon, Thomas Bangalter has an encounter with Cupid. [Thomas POV, an experiment in magical realism, NSFW.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Chanson d’un Ange

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Daft Punk, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit from nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
> Here I am again after a longish break from writing anything Human!DP! I'm quite proud of this one; it's long, but at the same time it's very much a gentle read. I hope you'll enjoy it!

**La Chanson d'un Ange - A Daft Punk Fanfiction**

\-----------------

Say hey. How's tricks?  
Care to spare me some time? I've got a story to tell, one that's been pleading to be let out since yesterday, you know? Do sit. It's a good one, I promise.

Two days ago, it was a slow afternoon when the stranger came into the cafe and was seated at my station. I was serving outdoors, and at where I work the regulars tend to take most of the tables there; he stuck out immediately with his red coat, frilled shirt and long dark hair that fell to the back of his shoulders. "What a _be-au-ti-ful day_ , _mon garçon_ ," was the first thing he said to me, already enjoying a slice of fresh baguette from the bread basket, and he was almost _singing_ it out loud; I can't do it justice, but he said it so melodically, like the first line of a poem. "you seem happy, I _love_ that in young men. What is your name?"

"Do call me Thomas, Monsieur."

" _Thoma'._ Lovely name. Where's your other half?"

I didn't realize the meaning behind what he asked back then, but I don't think he was looking for an answer in the first place. He winked at me - and believe me when I tell you that he was a _beautiful_ man, bright-eyed and timelessly handsome with a musical voice, a warm glow to his features. _Familiar,_ somehow, I was immediately comfortable with him. "I'm ready to order now," he said. " _mon Dieu_ , aren't I hungry. I'd like to begin with the bisque, if you please, followed by the duck confit with plenty of bread and butter. Not sure about dessert, but I'll think about it later. _Merci beaucoup_."

"Noted, Monsieur, anything to drink? There's coffee, plenty of wine and other drinks, and we've a fantastic _chocolat chaud_."

"Oh _non_ ," he shook his head vigorously. " _non, non, non_. Not that too, positively ob- _scene_ at this point, not with everything else I'm having. I tell you, _mon petit_ , a light lunch is either bread with hot chocolate, or some kind of equivalent dish. You don't mix _between_ the two, or have them both _together_."

A full year working in a cafe and I'd never heard that one before. I was much amused. " _Et pourquoi pas?_ "

"Because you'll go to hell," he replied calmly, buttering another piece of baguette. "sinful overindulgence and Belgian chocolate, all the way down to hell. I'd love a _café au lait_ , please! Oh, this bread is _incredible_ , can I have some more?"

 _Ah, bien sûr._ That's my job after all, I wouldn't have denied bread to anybody regardless of their opinions on heaven and hell. Denying anyone perfectly good bread ought to be illegal, unless you've got gluten intolerance floating somewhere in the cards; when I came by with the bread and bisque again, he was feeding the birds nearby with what was left of the crust. Sometimes they're a nuisance, those birds, what with them crowding around the customers. One even flew into the cafe once, fun times trying to chase _that_ one out. But around him were two blue-streaked magpies and two doves as snow-white as you can get - oh, they were so _pretty_! He had the doves feeding out of his hand and everything, fluttering gently without making the slightest fuss. " _Merci beaucoup_ ," he laughed when I set the bread basket down, and at that moment the sun peeked through behind the clouds and his eyes caught its shine, bright and green as spring.  
  
God, I tell you, those were eyes.  
  
" _De rien_. Is the bisque good?"  
  
He sampled it, and let out a luxurious sigh. "Mm-hhh, never had better. Is it just me, or is it getting warm?"  
  
"No, I'd agree with you. It is warm here."  
  
"Hmm, maybe I should take off my coat."  
  
"Go right ahead, Monsieur," I said. "a person's got to be comfortable, after all! I think that's your confit there, I'll just go and get it for you."  
  
"Wonderful. You're so kind."  
  
But when I came past again with the plate, he was still wearing it. He never took it off during the entire time he was in the cafe. Business was slow before that, and most of the customers had left by then; he was certainly the only one sitting outside. He was my only table, though; only myself and two others were serving, and even then he was hardly a demanding customer. When I wasn't helping out on the kitchen, I had plenty of time to stand and watch him.  
  
He ate daintily - but really _quickly,_ too, he was acting famished. Our duck confit doesn't come in a laughable amount. It's served on a bed of salad with sliced roast potatoes on the side, and he'd nearly cleaned out the whole plate within fifteen minutes, keeping a perfectly steady pace all throughout. I checked with my watch. After fifteen minutes he suddenly paused and returned to his bisque - it must have been lukewarm by then, and began to tear the bread into croutons, again sipping from his spoon most delicately. Mesmerizing to watch. There was nothing vulgar about him - he was slim and handsome, his clothes perhaps out of fashion but in a classical, vintage way, and his movements were so _smooth._  
  
No fumbling with utensils, either. He swirled cream into his coffee with naught but a single quick stir of the spoon, pulled out so fast and elegantly that scarcely any coffee dripped from it afterwards.  
Art personified.  
  
Every twenty minutes the waiters make a round of their tables and check if things are going okay, if their customers need anything else. I counted out five more minutes and went over to him. "Are you enjoying-" I got as far as that, but he'd been kind enough to finish almost all of his meal by that time. "- oh... I mean, have you enjoyed-"  
  
He chuckled, and I blushed all over. I could feel it to the tips of my toes. "Still enjoying, _merci beaucoup_ ," he said, and licked over his bottom lip slightly with his cute, pink tongue. "taking a break at the moment."  
  
And in the meanwhile he was repeatedly straightening out a paperclip into a strip of metal wire, then bending it back into shape. I'm sure most people have done that before, whenever they've gotten hold of one and weren't using it for anything else - there's not really much else you can do with a paperclip, not with the small thin kind that he had at least. But you'd probably agree that whenever you try to fold them back to how they were before, they never turn out quite right. With him it wasn't like that - three or four quick twists, and he had them back tight and functional, near fresh from the factory. "Why the paperclips?" I couldn't help myself asking.  
  
" _Pa-per-clips?_ " he sang back, raising his eyebrows. "to keep _papers_ together, of course, far less intrusive than a stapler. Everyone uses them! Don't you?"  
  
He had a point. I as a matter of fact don't use paperclips all that often, preferring to staple or just fold the corner of the pages altogether - that was before I met him, at least. I'm hoping to change. Him putting it that way made the imagery so _vivid_ that I found myself wanting to switch over to paperclips as well. After my shift was over I immediately headed over to the stationer and bought myself a lifetime supply in a plastic box, mixed silver, gold and metallic blue. But while I was standing there he put down the soup spoon with a sonorous finality, a high-pitched _clink_ that seemed to ring in the air, before nodding at me. "All done! Do you have shells in your bisque?"  
  
"I... pardon?"  
  
"Shells. Your bisque. Do you have them."  
  
"... _Oh!_ Of course. We wouldn't be calling it bisque with a straight conscience otherwise."  
  
He winked. "I thought as much, _Gott,_ it was delicious. I told you I was hungry," he pushed the plates forwards. "and if it wouldn't be too much to ask - what's the dessert menu for today?"  
  
"For dessert," I said, stacking the plates and utensils and carefully lifting them onto the tray. "there's a chocolate-and-pear tart with vanilla ice cream, an _île flottante_ with caramel-custard, and strawberry parfait. I do recommend the parfait myself, especially fitting for weather as warm and pleasant as today's."  
  
"A parfait sounds _perfect,_ it's in the name. You're troubled, aren't you."  
  
Nothing could have prepared me for that turn of conversation; I couldn't believe it. His eyes were twinkling, his voice a liquid trill, expression entirely pleasant despite what he was asking.  
  
"I... I beg your pardon, Monsieur? I'm not troubled."  
  
"Of course you're troubled. You wouldn't be human if you weren't. Care to talk about it?"  
  
There he was, forcing me to second-guess myself in a situation where I could have done without doing so.  
But then - thoughts like those don't rise to mind when you want them to, do they? You don't sit down one day and think _oh look, I am a deeply troubled individual, I might as well stay here and reason out exactly why I'm that way._ There's never enough time for all the contemplations that you want, so they get squeezed into the times where you _don't_ want them. "Please give me a moment," I said instead, and headed back into the kitchen to order his parfait, buying myself some thinking time. As the glass was being brought out and frosted on the rim with sugar I stared at myself in the mirror by the sink and wondered if I really looked that perturbed; I mean, I do worry about stuff in my life, but it really hadn't felt as if they were the kind of things that'd show on my face.  
  
Either I was letting something disturb me more than I thought, or he had an uncanny knack for seeing beneath the surface.  
Or both. Might well have been both.  
  
"Here's your parfait, Monsieur," I said when I brought out the glass with its long-handled spoon, and he got to it straight away, thanking me with a sunny grin. Then I looked around, saw that no one was paying attention - and carefully sat down opposite him. "about - what you meant... earlier..."  
  
"Oh, _I'm_ not troubled at all, personally," he said, nibbling at a strawberry. "I like the look of you, how kind and hardworking you are. I love people in general, but someone as young as you, doubtless filled with concern about their lives? They're my favourite to talk to. I feel like the world's spinning too fast lately. Too fast for those who need attention the most. No matter how slight your worries are, dismissing them isn't the way to handle things," he spooned up some cream and licked the silver clean. "so go on. What troubles you, _mon petit?_ "  
  
By then I'd thought about an answer to give. "Nothing interesting, I'm afraid," I began, but then he gave me a meaningful look to remind me that I wasn't supposed to downplay my worries. "... I worry about the usual things. About whether everyone I'm serving enjoys being here, if my friends are okay, if my family's doing all right. How to manage my time between enjoyment and work. Paying the bills, wondering what to cook myself for dinner, about how much money I've got saved up... all the common things. There's not a particular worry that I'd call urgent or unique."  
  
"I like how the first three things you said concern other people. That's getting rarer nowadays, putting others first. Care to tell me more?"  
  
"There isn't much to tell," I laughed awkwardly, although the moment I said it out loud I knew it was a lie. "... I... have this friend, a very good friend, who I work with. Not here. During nights, more often than anything. I guess we're work partners, even. He's been on my thoughts a lot lately - many things about him, I mean, our collaborating, the time we spend together, how we see each other-"  
  
I didn't finish. I realized at that point that I was probably making it sound more romantic than I intended, when I saw that the man had put his spoon down and was listening intently to every word. He had a very straight and natural posture and light reflecting off his coat added a faint reddish hue to his hair, falling about his face just gently - that was the first time I'd seen his face at equal level, and he struck me as both uncannily feminine and asserted yet in his manliness. It was as if he'd been carefully put together with all the fairer aspects of both sexes mingled into one, lending him a beauty I can only describe as muted but exquisite. "I want the two of us to reach _something_ ," I finally mumbled. "but I don't really know what I want or where to find it."  
  
" _Brill!_ " he exclaimed with a wink - yes, in English - making an elegant gesture with his spoon. "then I shan't pry any more. That's an important thing to admit, Thomas, that sometimes you don't have the answers, and that's okay. How would you seek progress otherwise?"  
  
"Yes, but I do feel bad. When other people are involved and I can't figure out what I need. Their time isn't my own to waste."  
  
"Your own isn't, either. Listen to the world, a veritable record, listen to how fast it spins."  
  
We did. I closed my eyes and paid attention to the traffic outside, a dim humming of engines and the frantic pace of passersby mingling into a dull senseless noise. But then I opened my eyes and lifted my head - a child with a red balloon was skipping past with her mother holding her hand, somewhere far ahead a fluffy white dog was leading its owner across the road, tail wagging, and the streets shone clean and free. Sure it spun fast from what he was telling me - but never so much that I couldn't notice those small things, and when I looked back at him he was smiling knowingly.  
  
"There's always time enough," he said. "time enough to understand all that you require. Never as far away as you think."  
  
"Do you think so?"  
  
" _Oui._ Maybe if you can't find your heart's desire in your own back yard, you never lost it to begin with. Cheer up, _mon petit._ We're all connected. Isn't it wholly inconceivable that I should be sitting in front of you, eating strawberry parfait? _Moi,_ out of all the customers you get, and everyone who passes by? A parfait, rather than a gâteau or chocolate-coated meringue?" he gestured elegantly around him. " _und doch bin ich hier!_ The impossible happens more often than you think. You get lucky, in other words; now if _that_ isn't nice, what is?"  
  
"I'm still not sure if I get it," I said. "but that's a pretty good feeling."  
  
"That's the whole idea," he smiled, and took another mouthful of parfait. It was nearly three o'clock by this time, he'd had a late lunch; from the tone of the conversation I could pick up that he was about to go, soon, and was proved right when he put the spoon down and asked for the bill. We take cash and card, and the moment I brought him it he pulled his wallet out and laid out fresh, crisp bills upon the table. So stiff they could have been printed right there and then, all genuine, vibrant, _bona fide_ banknotes. "and there you are, thank you ever so much," he laid down several coins in a neat pile next to those. "we'll see each other again, I'm sure."  
  
Some customers do say that. We're meant to smile and respond in the affirmative regardless of how they've behaved themselves. For me towards him, though, the feeling was mutual. "I hope so too, Monsieur, have a good day."  
  
" _Right_ you are, you bet we will," he cried, trilling that first 'r' lusciously like he was rolling a sweet on the tip of his tongue; he surprised me by standing _very_ suddenly and leaving the cafe with much flair and a laugh, a skip to his steps. " _bonjour!_ " he exclaimed and blew a kiss towards a cat curled up on the windowsill next door. I watched him go. " _bonjour, je vous souhaite une excellente journée, Monsieur le chat!_ "  
  
I looked down at the bill. He'd somehow tipped _thirty-three_ percent.  
And I swear - you can call me crazy, but I swear to _God_ \- that just before I went back inside, I heard that cat answer in the most irritated tone imaginable: "That's _mademoiselle_ to _you!_ "  
  
\-----  
  
Some story, huh? It wasn't a one-time occurrence. _All_ of Thursday was downright bizarre.  
As previously mentioned, I have a good friend. This friend of mine, it's very important that you know about him, so I'll get that over and done with. It'll explain a lot about how that night went, and how yesterday went.  
  
I've known Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo since we were twelve. He made me a mixtape and I lent him records and he made me _more_ mixtapes and helped me with German classes and I bought him a box of chocolates to say thanks, and then we began sitting next to each other in class. Back in 1991 I lent him a Primal Scream record that he still plays in his apartment now and then and still hasn't given back; he always says that he will, but hasn't and probably won't ever do so. He could keel over one day in the far distant future and I would still have to pry it out of his hands at the funeral, _rigor mortis_ be damned, he loves that record _so much_. And as much as I complain about it, I know that I'd never replace it myself - not if it gives me an excuse to head over to his, so that I can listen to it and smoke a cigarette while lying on his sofa.  
  
We're work partners and friendly rivals when it comes to our music. And those descriptions only make sense because after we left school we went straight into the industry, hand in hand, and haven't looked back since. So as you can see, it was _really_ important that I told you about Guy-Manuel, because he's a significant reason as to why and where I have my primary job.  
  
I'm a DJ who belongs to this one club, while he's a DJ who wanders more around the area; my salary's fixed, his varies, and sometimes we work together and evenly split what we get. My shift at the cafe finished at four, so I came home and took a quick nap before heading out again at seven to get ready for the club. Sounds exhausting, you say? It can be, but it's well worth it. At least I get to sleep in most mornings, Guy doesn't even get that sometimes. So anyway I was standing there behind the DJ-table, four hours and a half into my bit, and who did I see if not that man again - _still wearing that exact same coat and outfit._ Well, that is, save for a pearly-grey cravat that he hadn't been wearing earlier; either way it wasn't exactly clubwear. No, he didn't take the coat off there, either. I was just so taken aback at seeing him there that I think I missed a cue or two.  
  
He saw me, too, briefly, when he was directly at the front. Didn't talk to me, but he glided past with a thumbs-up, his emerald-green eyes matching the lights, a silver star glinting on his cheek.  
  
The first time I visited that club, I was fifteen and Guy was with me. We went for my birthday; they used star stickers and UV-stamps to mark the clubgoers back then. They still do.  
Guy stole my sticker halfway through the night and walked around with a star on each cheek for the rest of our time there, catching the strobe whenever he looked up, complimenting the catlike gleam of his eyes. Guy's eyes are blue, but nevertheless, that man reminded me of that night so long ago now; closed my eyes and it was like I was back there again, hearing his laughter in my ear, my heart syncing to the beat of the music. "Dance with me, Thomas," he'd laughed, his slender hand in mine, young and impish. "come on!"  
  
I can still hear Guy from back then, if I concentrate hard enough.  
When I brought myself back to the real world again the man was gone. I held out hopes that maybe he'd come back - he'd had a purposeful look in his eyes, I was wondering if he was waiting for a chance to request me something - but after half an hour, when the hour struck one twenty, my gig had finished and he was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Strange. Very strange. When I'd packed up and moved to the storage cupboard I was even beginning to think that I'd imagined the whole business altogether. That's where the DJs and staff put their things in for safekeeping during the night; it's big enough for you to change entire outfits if you want to, which was what I was doing. I was standing around in nothing but boxers when I realized a couple of very important things: one, that I'd left one of the most expensive parts of my equipment behind, and two, that there was someone knocking on the door. Didn't even have time to feel dismayed about that first thing. "Who is it?" I called.  
  
"Thomas, Thomas _Bang-alt-errr_ ," his voice chirped from outside, way too cheerful for me to comprehend. "it's _me_ , from the cafe earlier. Thanks for recommending the parfait."  
  
"What the - I - um, no problem, Monsieur...?"  
  
He knocked again. " _Ach_ , no need for formalities, _chéri,_ I'm not a customer any more. I'd like to come in, please. Let us _see_ each other, face to face."  
  
" _What?_ Y-you want to _come in?_ "  
  
"Mm-hmm."  
  
"Oh my God. Give me a second or two, please, I'm not - like - _dressed_."  
  
"Ask, and it shall be given unto you," a lot of good that did me, though, because he _literally_ waited two seconds before knocking again. "come on, Thomas, be good to me. If you don't let me in, I'm going to stand here and _sing_ until you do," he laughed. Now that I'm telling this to you, I'm not entirely sure what he'd hoped to achieve with that, but it threw me off at the time. And he was true to his word, because, oh God, after a few seconds of silence he _actually did begin to sing_ through the keyhole. _"ou-vre-moi ta por-te, pour-l'amour-de-Dieu..."_  
  
He had the loveliest singing voice I ever heard from a man, I'll give him that, but the storage cupboard of a nightclub is hardly the place to do that in. "Okay, okay, I'm _coming_ ," I hollered, frantically tugging my jeans on, and ran forwards to unlock the door; there he stood, looking not at all tousled or even surprised at the sight of me.  
  
"Behold, here I stand and I knock on your door," was the only explanation he gave, combined with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows as he handed me what I'd forgotten back there on the DJ-table. "and when you hear my voice and open it for me, I will enter... and lo, I shall come bearing those _incredibly_ expensive-looking headphones, lest they be stolen away by some dark and handsome stranger, and you shall accept. I couldn't just leave them, see."  
  
I can see you're laughing. I was too. It turned out kind of hysterical though because the situation was just so _absurd_ and I was so _relieved_ to have them back. I don't even remember thanking him, though I should have. "I haven't danced for a long time. Though I enjoyed it, there's enough life in those bones yet," he was saying, patting his own knee. You'd have laughed even harder if you'd been there, because he was way too young-looking to be saying things like that. "your boxers are very pretty tonight. How do you like this star, isn't it charming?" he tapped at his cheek, his hands gloved in black silk. " _I_ think so, but I might be too old for it, _je ne sais pas_."  
  
I'd have been able to answer that question if I'd actually known how old he was, but all I had was my sight and it was letting me down big time. Plus, when I looked down I saw that I'd forgotten to zip up, just like he said - God, that was embarrassing! "Yes - I mean, I mean, _no_ ," I said hastily, but it was too late. He'd already lifted his hand and smudged it clean away like makeup, leaving his pale skin behind. "oh no, that's not what I meant at all! You're - not _old_. It looked really good on you."  
  
"Oh, make up your _mi-i-nd_ ," he sighed with a roll of his eyes, then _rubbed the star back on_. I'm not kidding. Just reversed the motion of his hand from front to back, and out of nowhere the star was painted back onto his translucent cheek, glittering innocently as if it'd never left. "and there you are. Would you like one, too?"  
  
"I - no, no, it's fine," I stammered. I felt like a right idiot, standing there with my shirt still off and staring at him as if paralyzed. "you just... reminded me of something..." then it struck me. "Wait, how did you even get here? How did you find out my last name?"  
  
He pointed down the corridor, chuckling. "A bouncer was kind enough to tell me. I think his name was Anton, I said I wanted to see you and he led me here. You're apparently a common sight in this place, and plus - come on, your DJ-handle is _T-Bang_. It wasn't hard to put two and two together."  
  
Anton is a _mean goddamn bastard_. Extremely strict and no-nonsense. "You got _Anton_ to tell you all that?"  
  
"I can get _anybody_ to tell me _anything, mon petit_. It's good fortune that we met again so soon. I'd like to talk to you for a while, Thomas; could you spare me a few minutes?"  
  
Did I feel like I had a choice in the matter? Not really. I couldn't imagine what kind of expression he might have had if I'd rejected him, but I would have felt like the worst person in the world.  
At that point I think I was just going with the flow. Not twenty-four hours of knowing this man and he already saw me in my underwear, hey, why not go all the way? I said yes, stashed my headphones in my bag, quietly put on my shirt and left the club with him like he wanted. When we stepped out we immediately paused and inhaled the fresh night air, the way Guy and I do sometimes, sighing happily. "I just realized, I went to see you so I could give my compliments to the DJ and I _completely_ forgot! _Mea culpa._ Thomas, you were fantastic."  
  
_"Merci."_  
  
"Does it make you popular with the girls? The boys? Might you find your other half through it someday?"  
  
I was blushing, but the dark hid me well, and despite the barrage of questioning he was an immensely comforting presence. You know how nervous you get, walking alone in the dark sometimes. "You've asked me this before. What do you mean by 'other half'?"  
  
"Thomas for twin," he laughed. "that's what it means. _Dein Name_. No one around you have interesting names like that?"  
  
"I don't think _Thomas_ is half that interesting," I still feel that way. The more popular a name the less fascinating I find it. "that friend of mine, the one I mentioned earlier - he has a better one."  
  
"Let us hear it."  
  
"Guillaume Emmanuel."  
  
" _Oh_ -hhh," he exclaimed, hand drifting to his forehead in a half-swoon before straightening back up as if nothing happened. "what a beautiful name! Free will crossing swords with our Lord in Heaven. So double-edged. Formidable. Adorable. _Tres bièn._ He must be quite the character, your friend, if he's so permanently in your thoughts."  
  
Well, when he put it that way, I couldn't deny it now, could I? I'd already spilled to him quite a bit of what I felt towards Guy, never imagining for a second that I would see him again so soon. There was no escaping that. _Spare me a few minutes,_ he'd said, but I looked sideways at his vibrant expression and I knew I was going to need a lot more than just a few minutes. "I need to get to the supermarket," I said. "to get a few things... would you come with me?"  
  
I only asked as a matter of formality. I knew he'd have come along anyway.  
  
We talked a lot. All the way to the supermarket, all the way through my shopping trip. In a way I guess I was waiting for someone like him to come along. A third party, genuinely unaffiliated with either Guy or myself, someone to provide true outside perspective. Our lives - Guy's and mine - have been entwined for so long that it's hard for us to comprehend a life apart from each other, or to seek advice outside of our mutual circle of friends and family. Plato's own Academy would have nothing on us. But while they're immensely supportive, I...  
  
Well.  
  
I knew I could probably talk to them about this issue, what I feel for Guy, and they'd have not only understood but perhaps even tried to help us get together. But I couldn't accept that. For if I let anyone else know, I would no longer be in control of my emotions - I'd only be able to watch helplessly as my intentions were interpreted in ways I never wanted them to be. Precisely because they were all so close to us, there was no way I could have something so deeply personal and full of feeling _stay private_ only to themselves and I. And what can I say, Guy's feelings were his own, my feelings were my own; they either matched up or they didn't. And I was afraid. Afraid of finding out either way, even more afraid of confessing, because I somehow doubted that he would be the one to speak up first.  
  
Do you think I was being silly?  
Because _he_ thought I was being silly. I really shouldn't care all that much about what strangers think of me, but this man - he was...  
  
... somehow, just  
  
not there  
  
_to be ignored._  
  
"This friend," he asked when I was done spilling out all my worries. "he is shorter than you?"  
  
What an odd question to ask. Do you go around asking random people whether their friends are shorter than you are? "... Yes, about a head shorter. He doesn't like talking about his height, though."  
  
"Ah, as I thought. What you want doesn't seem that complicated to me. Why, he's your _literal petit-ami_ , all you need to do is to fill in the gaps!"  
  
"It's not quite as easy as that!" I protested, though when he put it like that, I suddenly didn't understand myself _what_ made it so difficult. He tilted his head like an inquisitive jackdaw, waiting for me to explain. "it's such a massive change, I... I'm not that brave. I don't think I can be the one to turn the steering wheel. My father, he's a music producer, when I was younger I dropped one of his vintage shellac records and shattered it and I was so scared of what he'd say, what he'd do. But he didn't get angry, just knelt down beside me and picked the pieces from my knees... He said he was just glad I was okay, he said... that... with valuable things we ought to be extra careful. I've never forgotten that and I... feel like - that maybe it's best off that he and I stay as we are, he's too precious to me... Where we're _safe,_ where we know how things work, where there's no need for either of us to be hurt."  
  
That was the gist of what I said at least. When this was actually happening I was rambling a lot more, and he actually walked with me in silence, listening to all of it.  
Oh, God. I must have looked completely crazy. Then he took off his gloves and stashed them in his pocket; his hands were pale, fragile. "People are _fascinating,_ " he stated out loud, more to himself than I. "no other creature is as concerned about the things that they can't change as people are. I've always been this way. Always have, always am, always will. All time is all time. You don't _force_ it to change, it just feels that way because you can only live it in one direction."  
  
"You sound as if _you_ don't have to."  
  
He ignored this. "I have a good friend, myself. Probably since before you existed. Our relationship sounds near identical to the one that you have with him," he tossed his hair back slightly, the fluorescent lights washing over it in a pale river. It was a _very_ brightly-lit supermarket, he looked almost washed out. "even though we are different in many ways. We cook together - he knows how I love food - talk about the day-to-day details of our lives, even if we can't always identify with them, and when we're annoyed with each other we regularly send each other to Coventry."  
  
"... Um, where exactly is _Coventry?_ "  
  
" _C'est un idiome anglais._ 'Deliberately keeping away from someone'. He and I are polar opposites, and yet we remain so close that death is a mere slap on the wrist compared to our relationship. I have never felt that we had to become the same as each other, or change who we fundamentally are, in order to fit together."  
  
"So you don't think you should change for the ones you love?"  
  
"It's not a matter of _should_ ; rather, of _will_. Change doesn't come in hasty decisions, Thomas, you can't force a square to fit a circle! Change is organic, unconscious, intrinsic. It grows and flourishes with you. You shouldn't be feeling like you're forcing it to happen. Relax and go with the flow."  
  
"But isn't that the same thing as what I just said? If he and I can only experience time in one direction, then just by staying here we're... we're being carried along by this figurative current, aren't we? Isn't that basically change as you described it?"  
  
He shook his head firmly. " _Non, mon petit, non._ What you want is _stasis_. What you want is _resignation_ , to come what may. That's not what people do and that's not what I meant."  
  
I looked at him. He looked back at me. The star had vanished from his face.  
  
"Your world is tied up in various causes and effects, Thomas, and even though the entanglement is vast, there's an underlying logic in there as predictable as you want it. And there's not much you can do to pry the individual links of the chain apart. Strictly speaking, you can't change what's to come in the universe. But again - you're just one person and the universe is endless and within you exists a deep unknown, the future, the anticipation that keeps you engaged with the world. _Est-ce que tu comprends?_ So what if what will happen will happen, you still don't know what that would be. It's not anywhere near as mechanical as you think. You aren't rocks sitting in a stream - you want progress, you want to live, you want others, you want to love and be loved, you - you _want._ It's what humans _do_. You being careful with him should never equal _stasis_."  
  
The curve of his mouth was defiant and strong. As he spoke his liquid words gained in power and intensity, so much that he had gained a rough, ravishing passion to his voice; I felt like I was going to faint, listening to him, it was almost too much. He made me feel so insignificant and crushed, and yet at the same time, as if I could do anything. "I'm so _scared_ , though," I whispered, standing right there in the middle of the aisle. "because I could fail and there would be nothing I could do about it."  
  
"Doesn't matter. All that which falls, and flies again, has wings."  
  
Then the rest was silence.  
The supermarket was very quiet that late at night, though there were people around, occasionally passing us by and giving us looks. Even though he was shorter than I, he looked at me unblinking, so full of authority and reassurance that I felt myself beginning to yield. "You're right," I said slowly, before I'd even processed all of my thoughts. "you're... you're right... I still won't hurry things, but - the next time I visit him I want to talk to him about it. I can't let it sit forever."  
  
"That's more like it," he nodded, his demeanor softened once more. He skimmed the wine rack, tiptoed, and pointed at a bottle. "can't go wrong with a good wine as a present, either - how about this one?"  
  
I pulled it out and held it in my hands. Red wine, apparently with hints of dark chocolate, cherry and amontillado; not a brand that I recognized. "Hmm, I don't know."  
  
"I think you should," he insisted, and tapped at the wine. His nails clinked against the bottle and made it chime softly, the red within swirling and sparkling as the bottle caught the light. "I've a wonderful feeling about this. Go on. Go _wild_."  
  
Now I don't usually let people dictate my alcohol choices for me. I've been on this earth for over two decades and if I've learnt anything useful during that time, it's what's good and what's terrible to drink. I'm especially careful with red wine, it's one of my favourites and there are very few things sadder than poor red wine. I disclaim this so thoroughly because this one time I actually did give in and buy it, and actually, I'm pretty damn glad that I did. I'll tell you more about that later. It wasn't even expensive wine, I'd never have noticed it if he hadn't pointed it out, and that's what I mean. _Him._ He was so matter-of-fact about everything that he could have told me that that glass flows like a river and I'd have needed a second or two to doubt him.  
  
I remember nothing else that I bought as vividly. Might have been a pineapple in there somewhere. He stayed by my side as we checked out; I could feel some people staring at him, man and woman, the young and elderly alike, struck by his ethereal beauty. I must have looked like nothing but a pale shadow next to him. I was relieved by the attention, though, it reassured me that I wasn't crazy to find him so compelling. "They were complimenting you," I told him as we left, feeling that - well - he deserved to know, if he didn't. "the people. In the store."  
  
"I know, it was fantastic. But then you're used to seeing that, aren't you?"  
  
How did he know such things? How could he know that when I'm out with Guy, he gets a great deal of attention for how he looks?  
That's a constant theme with us. When we were younger we went to a concert together at the L'Olympia, and because we were far crazier back then than we are now, he had at some point lost his shirt and was pogo'ing like mad. He does that a lot during concerts. Losing his shirt, I mean, not the pogo. But yeah, a few days after that concert I ran across this one guy I knew who'd also been there and he asked: "Hey, Thomas, was that your girlfriend at the show jumping with her shirt off?"  
  
"No," I'd cried out in response back then, starting to giggle again from the memory. "no, that was my friend - my _best friend_ , Guy-Manuel!"  
  
I looked up then, met the man's eyes, and I could feel myself smiling along with him. No more words were needed. He knew. He took my left hand in his, it was such an odd feeling; his touch was so gentle that I couldn't perceive it, but his warmth was intense and real. His hand stroked over mine and it cast no shadow. "Don't worry. Things will work out, I guarantee it one- _hund_ -red-per- _cent_. Remember, you're as good as anybody, even though you are French."  
  
"... Heh, thanks for telling me. Though aren't you on the same boat there?"  
  
"You don't know that, though, do you?"  
  
It was true, though, I actually didn't. I realized that almost as soon as I said it. He'd had a gentle trilling accent that wasn't at all out of place compared to anyone else I saw that day, so I'd just assumed that he was a particularly musical Frenchman or German, nothing wrong about that. And I suppose there was nothing wrong about just leaving it at there, that I didn't know, and that it wouldn't kill me not knowing. But - but after him helping me out so much, I was curious. "Then what - or _who_ \- are you?"  
  
Sensible question, all things considered, you might think; but oh, I have never been so proud and yet so regretful of asking such a simple thing. It was as if a figurative key had turned and clicked in the figurative lock; the moment he heard those words fall from my lips, he looked up and _beamed_ at me. It wasn't in the scale of smiles, grins or even laughter. Not even close. I'd thought he was beautiful before, but compared to what I saw then, all I'd seen of him before were muted forever. It was an all-encompassing expression, at once joyous and full of peace, so much that I felt as if I would begin crying the second he stopped. My God, I _never_ wanted him to stop. Phrases like 'astonishing beauty' or 'religious ecstasy' are so loaded as to cheapen the experience, they don't do what I felt justice, I... I can't describe it. He was right _there_ and the streetlights were casting a golden halo around his hair and the despite the darkness of the shadows he seemed to _emit_ , not _cast_ \- and I knew in that very moment that I would never get the answer that I was seeking for, that it would not come from him at the very least. I no longer wanted it. Beyond anything else his expression was _innocent_ , reminding me oddly of a picture of Guy from when he was five, before we met - where he was sitting on a swing one summer day, the wind in his hair, laughter in his eyes. Nostalgia for what I'd never actually experienced alongside him. As I gazed into that man's eyes I felt as if I was staring into a fully-formed universe within him that I would never cease to adore or be able to explore in its entirety, not for my lifetime or even a second. And yet that universe was also a mirror of this one, the one you and I and everyone in the world share - he was at once an illustration, a revelation, a reflection of both my desires and the place I occupied in this vast cosmos, small and yet so utterly my own.  
  
Looking at him, I knew that things were going to be all right. What I saw in him was _order._  
He and I, Guy and I, you and I - visitors to a dream, our lives to be rounded with a little sleep, and yet the very fabric of said dream at the same time. We're all connected.  
  
"I am what I am," he whispered quietly, and his words echoed faintly in the night. There it was, then. That was all I needed to know.  
  
I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath until he said that; I let it out, blinked, and then the vision was gone, leaving in me a deep-seated, content _emptiness_. Though, selfishly, I did want to hold onto him a little longer. "... What is your name?" I had to ask, completing some circle of conversation between us.  
  
" _Mein Na-me?_ " he echoed, grinned, and leaned swiftly forwards to whisper something in my ear. I wish I could remember what it was, it was whispered so fast I didn't catch more than a syllable out of maybe three; then he straightened, bowed, and ran away into the darkness before I could stop him. There he disappeared, and I haven't seen him since.  
  
So much like a dream, if not for the bottle of wine in my hands.  
I stood there for a long time, staring after him, only broken out of my reverie when my phone began ringing from my pocket. Half in a daze I picked it up and answered. _"Allo, c'est... c'est Thomas Bangalter."_  
  
" _Zut alors,_ aren't we formal tonight," Guy laughed at the other end, and I held my breath again, eyes sliding shut, feeling like something had pierced the depths of me. In a really, _really_ nice way. "takes me back to high school. How was the gig?"  
  
I hadn't even checked his name on my phone. We usually skip the greetings and get right to it.  
Practical, just like him. Something ached in my chest.  
  
"... Guy... I... it went okay..."  
  
"Are you all right?" he asked. "you don't sound like yourself."  
  
\-----  
  
No.  
  
No, I suppose I didn't.  
  
...  
  
It was in the bath where I found Guy yesterday, when I went over to his. The windows were fogged up because his apartment is small, his only bathroom's an ensuite and he was sitting in the tub with the door open and warm water swirling around his body. All the lights were out but it was still bright enough that he had a book and a pile of music sheets next to the bath on a stool, something that he'd been working on before I came over.  
  
He's just that type of person. He works in the bath. He works all the time. Was like that in school, and he never lost that habit. "I decided on an _allegretto_ ," was the first thing he said to me, the moment I entered the apartment and stood by the doorway of the bathroom. Beside him was an ashtray with a recently-extinguished cigarette on it. _"allegretto con brio._ Nothing could be less authentic to my posture right now, if I'm honest, but then no one's going to hear it but you."  
  
Guy composes. I should have told you about that. I'm more for the words.  
But sometimes he composes little pieces for me to play on the piano. Wish fulfillment for what he didn't learn, he said once.  
  
" _Salut_ to you, too. How're you feeling?"  
  
"Wet."  
  
"Yes, well done for noticing. Is the bath relaxing, at least?"  
  
He lifted a hand and brushed his hair back. The water was full of bubbles, the colour of milk from whatever he put in it, steam rising from it faintly. "Very. Do I have mail?"  
  
" _Oui_ ," I handed them over. "mostly junk, though, they looked like."  
  
His groan confirmed for me that this was the truth. "Debt consolidations... phone bills... more loan sharking. Oh, take them _away_ ," he mumbled, lightly tossing them on the stool, somehow managing to keep them entirely dry. I picked them all up - books, music sheets, bills and all - and put them in a pile on the toilet seat instead so that I could sit down. "if I had my way, all debt collectors would have to fight a duel if they wanted to see a single cent of whatever they wanted."  
  
_"Épée, foil ou sabre?"_  
  
_"Pistols,"_ he said, and sank back with a sleepy smirk on his lips, submerging himself slowly under the water to wetten his hair. "single-shot, clean and simple, unlike the bastards."  
  
We were silent for a while. I'd been hoping I could talk to him about our dual project, but looking at him lying there with his eyes closed and curled up in the bath, I felt like that could wait a while. Eventually he opened his eyes and looked back up at me, brushing a wet lock of hair away from his forehead.  
  
"Please make me a sandwich, Thomas," he asked me, his low voice gaining such a plaintive tone that I couldn't say no. It was four in the afternoon and he was already slurring his words, I don't know if he'd been drinking or he was just sleepy or what. I can never tell. "like - oh, I don't even _know_ , something ridiculously simple, a _jambon-beurre_ maybe. With _butter_ and _bayonne_ and _salt_ on the bread."  
  
"You think I don't make enough sandwiches where I work?" I said, but as I said, I'm not known for my ability to deny him anything. After all, I was only making it for him, not going out to buy the ingredients. Luckily he's a pretty damn considerate guy as far as things are concerned, and a jambon-beurre is the easiest sandwich in the entire world. "at least you weren't asking me to _buy_ you one. If you weren't such a good friend, I swear I'd never talk to you again. Or as someone told me not long ago - I'd send you to Coventry."  
  
"... Where the hell is _Coventry?_ "  
  
"I have no idea. Would you like some wine, too?"  
  
"Mm- _hmm_ ," he said. Slow and soft as the afternoon. "mm-hmm."  
  
I reached inside my bag. There was the bottle of wine inside it, and the box of paperclips - you haven't forgotten those, have you? - and I set both on the floor. " _J'arrive,_ " I nodded and headed to the kitchen as he raised his hand in a lazy wave. Everything I needed was there - a fresh baguette, still uncut and mere hours away from hardening, _bayonne_ ham, and salted butter in the well-topped _cloche de beurre._ After literally two minutes I was on my way again, the baguette sandwich on a plate, a glass of orange juice as my payment for making it, a corkscrew and two wineglasses. He was washing his hair by then, his movements almost lethargic as he worked shampoo into it, eyes closed and frowning delicately in thought before sliding backwards into the water to rinse it off. When he finally looked over at me, tiny drops of water were beaded on his eyelashes.  
  
We didn't say anything. I sat back down and set the plate down within his reach; he tugged a towel close and dried his hands off before curling his knees to his chest, the plate resting atop them as he began to tuck in. He always eats very cleanly, tearing the bread just so that the crumbs are contained on the plate or don't shed at all; no matter how crisp the bread is, he can always leave behind a sparkling plate with nothing other than controlling the pressure of his fingers. He'd have made a pianist ten times better than I. "Is that my orange juice," he spoke aloud midway into the _jambon-beurre._  
  
"Yes, but I deserve it. I made you an actual snack, the least you can do is to give me a drink."  
  
"Oh, I'm not _complaining_ , I wouldn't have minded if you took anything else. I'm glad you got that for yourself at least. I never trust people with no appetite, I always feel like they're hiding something, don't you think so?"  
  
"I wouldn't know, Guy. I love food, myself - but I really wouldn't know."  
  
"Your thoughts are always so _uncertain,_ Thomas. Though it's better than being overly assured. it gives me things to look forward to."  
  
I tried to reply, but he wasn't listening at that point, too fixated on eating. He was really enjoying the sandwich, though, I didn't mind.  
From the side I finally picked out the music sheets; five pages, scribbled and annotated with Guy's to-die-for-handwriting. Starting from the title page I could see that he'd written a waltz, high and playful like a kitten, and grinned. He has his moments, though you'd never think it, looking at him. People who've seen him have described him as anything from haughty to an ice-cold son of a bitch, though they only say those things because they don't know him like I do.  
  
They were unnumbered and out of order, those sheets. I managed to piece them together anyway, scrutinizing the start and final notes of each page, imagining how they fit; when I was confident I pulled out a paperclip and bound them all together. He was watching me. "There you are. Could do with a bit of organizing, if I've even put them in the right order."  
  
"Hum it for me? If you don't mind a bit of sight-reading," I did, and he grinned brightly. "you always had the better ear for music than I, that sounds exactly right. Open," I did, and he fed me a piece of his sandwich. "pop the cork for me, would you?"  
  
The wine was a deep cherry red, so dark and rich that barely any light shone through it while in the bottle.  
But the moment I liberated it into our glasses it seemed to sparkle in the way wine usually never does, and with it came an aroma so delicious and intense that we were both surprised by it. It filled the entire bathroom, making us feel as if we were sitting in the middle of a vineyard. "That must be one _hell_ of a wine, Christ," Guy said, eyes wide and suddenly looking very awake. "have you had this before?"  
  
"Not at all," he picked up his glass and took a sip. He didn't look any less shocked by it. "is it that bad?"  
  
He was silent for a while, letting the taste fade away on his tongue. " _No-on,_ " he finally spoke up with a deep blush. " _non_ , that's not what I... oh, _oh_ , this is lovely. It really is. Next time, can you take me along, too? I want to stock up on this brand."  
  
He was right to have thought so! Best wine I ever had, so full of flavour I could only take tiny sips at a time, filling my insides with spicy, exhilarating delight with every drop of it slipping down my throat. I'd tell you what brand and type and year but I can't, sadly, it was so good I want to keep it to ourselves for a little longer. Whether that man in the red coat knew what he was choosing or not, it was an amazing find; if he didn't, he surely had some kind of magical touch that allowed him to find such a beauty.  
And the wine, Guy loved it as much as I, he was _kissing_ the wine! No other way of describing it. Lips pouting eagerly against the glass, though he too seemed overwhelmed by it, a butterfly-flush spreading slow on his cheeks and across his chest as he reached for more. Every time he lifted the glass off his mouth he licked at the imprint that he'd left. And he was - _mon Dieu,_ he was making _sounds_ , ones that were nigh orgasmic, as he drank - so much I was actually beginning to feel the heat a little, myself.  
  
How did I know what that sounded like? Well, I've heard him having sex before, and vice versa. We don't exactly conceal much from each other.  
He moans real nice, slow and deep and gorgeous.  
  
By the time we'd both finished, we were staring at the bottom of our glasses then back at each other, feeling as if a string had unraveled in our heads. We joke around with each other about sex and whatnot like many guys do, and we've seen each other at our highest and lowest, but I don't think it hit us until that moment just how much we knew about each other - that he was comfortable _moaning_ around me, that I was visibly squirming on my seat and he understood. For Christ's sake we were sitting in the bathroom together getting off on red wine purely because of how _delicious_ it was. If that's not ridiculous I don't know what is. Only to him and I did any of this make sense.  
  
It was simultaneously liberating and nerve-wracking. I stood up and picked up the empty glass, the one I'd poured the orange juice in. "I, uh," I said, my voice shaking like hell and unable to hide it. "I'll go and put this away."  
  
He didn't stop me nor say anything; just let me go. The moment I left, though, I could hear a splash as he finally roused himself from the bath. My heart was going a mile a minute and I set down the glass heavily in the empty sink and I looked out at the sun outside and _oh my God_ , I said out loud. Something had been wound up tightly, it was darting off into nowhere, and both he and I were being taken along for the ride.  
  
I'd never get in a word about that goddamn project that day, that much I knew. And I didn't in the end. Not that it was urgent.  
  
"Guy? Are you still in there?"  
  
_"Je suis dans mon lit,"_ he called, and he was. He'd opened the windows to let out the steam; his apartment has a balcony with a small glass table, and he'd set the dishes atop it to put them out of the way. Guy himself was lying sideways on the bed, his hair fanned out behind him, eyes closed and now dressed in nothing but a loose dressing gown. In his left hand he was clutching the towel that he'd dried his hair with; when I sat down his grip on the towel slackened and it fell to the floor, and I looked at him for a while.  
  
We've seen each other naked a few times before, or at least wearing very little. Compared to how long we've known each other, it's not been long since 'attractive' became a word that I'd use to describe his body, and even then not entirely in the lustful sense. I wouldn't have been able to hang out with him whilst he was in the bath otherwise, drinking wine and discussing life, because that'd just have been weird. That afternoon was different, though - Guy always blushes up a storm when he drinks wine, something about his metabolism, he says. Normally it's good for a chuckle, but that day all I could think of was how sweet and defenseless the nape of his neck looked, how warm he must feel when he's so flushed like that. I was feeling pretty good, myself, so I did the most logical thing that came into my mind at that moment and lay down with him on the bed. He didn't resist at all, his cheeks pink as I stroked over them with the back of my hand and felt their warmth; I was lying a few inches off and even then I could scent him from where I was, his freshly-washed body combined with his natural fragrance.  
  
...  
  
He smelled lovely. Smoky sugar, honey oatmeal and pinot-noir grapes.  
  
...  
  
I put my arms around him and nuzzled the back of his neck.  
He tensed for only a second, but then laxed in my embrace, glancing back at me with his eyes half-lidded, full of questions. "I met a man at the cafe yesterday," I told him in the quietest voice I could muster, half hoping that he wouldn't hear. "a total stranger. He was nothing like you, but reminded me of nothing but you at the same time. Weird, huh?"  
  
That actually made him tense up again, I remember, and he turned to look at me with confusion - and what looked like deep-seated unease - written all over his face. "What do you mean by that? Did he look like me or something?"  
  
"Sort of. But not the closest resemblance, I meant more that he reminded me of when we were both younger. You and I going to concerts, having the time of our lives. You forever getting mistaken for my girlfriend," I chuckled. "those were the days."  
  
"Hmph. You sound like you don't like me now as much."  
  
He was pouting; that's his code for when he's playfully upset. "You're right, I don't like you now as much," I said, watching him gape at me with mixed indignation and the beginnings of genuine distress, before leaning forwards to stroke over his hair. It was drying already, silky between my fingers. "because I like you now on a scale far vaster than anything past-you or past-me understood. It'd be downright meaningless to compare."  
  
"Jee- _sus_ ," he mumbled - his voice was shaking despite himself - and tugged his gown more tightly around himself before laying back down haughtily. "I swear, Thomas - don't throw around stuff like that, I can't handle it. Scared the hell out of me."  
  
Would you think that I was wrong to have felt a sense of relief about that? That... you know, he cared? Guy's not the most emotive person in the world, what he said - that meant so, so much to me. There used to be times when I felt that I could be on my deathbed and he'd remain completely stoic about it. I like it when he expresses himself around me, I'm someone that he can do that with. " _Désolé, Guy-Manuel, désolé,_ " I coaxed as I kept on stroking his hair. "you know I'd never do that. By all means give me a nudge when I tease too much - but honest to God, we're both older than we were before, that's just cold hard _fact_. It'd be nonsense to think that was a reason to let you go."  
  
"And... and that man?"  
  
"Told you. Never saw him before, not likely to see him again, in the end it was _you_ he reminded me of."  
  
"... So you still want to stay close to me, right? Even if I'm not quite who I was a year or two or more ago?"  
  
"Of course. Next year you won't exactly be like this, either, but I'd adore you anyway because it's all you. I mean, if I weren't Thomas Bangalter, I'd wish to be Guy-Manuel even just for a day," I whispered into the nape of his neck, and dared to brush my lips over his skin. "you're _wonderful_ just the way you are."  
  
He chuckled and curled forwards just slightly. "Really. Well, thank you. Because if I weren't Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo, _I'd_ wish to be Guy-Manuel, too."  
  
"Oh, be _quiet!_ "  
  
I grabbed him and pulled him up, and he came with me; we were both laughing by then, leaning heavily against each other, feeling as if we were kids again. We laughed so long and hard we had tears in our eyes by the time we could draw in a proper breath - _gravitas_ has a way of doing that to you, you take life too seriously and it warps right back into funny. There were no glasses, so I just picked up the bottle of wine and drank from it directly to try to calm myself down, but it's hard trying to drink when you're still giggling. Nearly spilt it all over me.  
  
"Silly," he cried out, still laughing. Then not wanting to waste even the tiniest bit of that wine, he leaned forwards and licked a spare drop off the corner of my mouth, and...  
  
...  
  
And...  
  
I...  
  
Before I carry on I really must make one thing clear. I've talked a lot about the angst I had about Guy and myself, whether I'd speak up or just stay how we were. I can see that you assumed that I was worried about being rejected, and I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about the possibility of that. But that really wasn't what was happening, here. I was genuinely more frightened about whether and when I would be actually able to speak up - it was _about that moment_ , less about the consequences. It's always the anticipation that kills. Regardless of his answer, even if it turned out that he only wanted us to be friends, it could not have frightened me more than actually having to confess; likewise, whenever I played out the dream scenario in my mind and imagined him accepting, I think I was more struck with disbelief and a sense of not knowing what to do next rather than being overjoyed about it.  
  
Guy _didn't know that._ But somehow he managed to erase that agony off my mind completely.  
I wasn't surprised that he reciprocated. Only that it took nothing but a single gesture from him, and that it was happening right there and then. We stared at each other, in shock for only a moment, and then it became absurdly clear what we both wanted and needed.  
  
It was all so natural that I almost couldn't believe that we ever needed the time in between.  
  
"... Thomas?" Guy asked, resting his hand gently atop mine. I looked at him. He was trembling slightly, but his face was perfectly serious; save for the blush kissing over his cheeks and his soft-parted lips, he looked exactly like the calm Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo I knew and adored. I'd probably have found the whole thing more alien if he'd had any other expression in that moment. I squeezed his hand, he looked down - bit his lower lip before licking it over with his tongue - and reached his hands to my shirt, unbuttoning it as gradually as he could manage, top to bottom. Because of our tussling earlier his gown was loose around him, most of his chest revealed and some of the material sliding down one of his shoulders; he was full of promise, more erotic in that moment than being entirely naked.  
  
He was golden.  
  
I helped him out by shrugging my shirt off when he was done. He tugged at my tie and it unravelled easily in his hand; I unzipped my jeans and tossed them aside as well, and then laid down on the bed so he might see me better - I wanted him to have full control. "May I," he said as he picked up the wine bottle - yes, I do mean _said_ , it wasn't a question - and I nodded despite having not the slightest idea what he wanted to do to me. What he did was - he tilted the bottle like this, kind of like what I'm doing with this glass right now - so slightly that the red liquid within spilled out in a thin drip instead of all at once right onto my skin, flowing in a straight river down my chest. Then he leaned down and wiped it clean with his tongue, first licking directly up the trail and then around it, his brows furrowed a little as if he were forming some critical opinion of my body.  
  
"Sorry I'm so pale," I said, and meant it. Thought he might find it off-putting, being able to see my veins and all. It seemed to stand out even more than the usual, compared to the rose-flush on his cheeks and down his torso I felt ever so naked and faint - but he shook his head the moment he was done licking off the wine.  
  
"Mmh, no. I _like_ it. Smooth and creamy like those marble statues in the _Jardin du Luxembourg_ , even if not quite as sculpted."  
  
"Hah, I'm all right then. All _creamy_."  
  
" _Oui._ And to your cream here's strawberries," he laughed, and bent his head to suckle on one of my nipples.  
  
...  
  
Why am I telling you this?  
  
...  
  
Then again, why would I need to hide the truth from you? I'll carry on if it doesn't make you uncomfortable.  
  
It doesn't? All right.  
  
...  
  
They were pink, he said. Pink and pert and sweet to the touch, just like strawberries. When he lifted his head at last he had them firm and glistening faintly from his licks, and I looked down at them and remember thinking that maybe he had a point, but I never developed that chain of thought further than that. I had something far better to appreciate. He was still wearing his dressing gown at this point, mind; it was a lovely gown, a golden treacle-beige colour that complimented his skin tone nicely, but that's not much use when you're objecting to clothing as a whole. I tugged on the belt and it fell around him with a secretive rustle like chocolate paper, and he soft-centered came into my sight at once, never once resisting. A slow, sensual _unwrapping_ , let us call it that, like that piece of Belgian truffle long-awaited after an absence, fed to you by lamplight by a lover perhaps.  
  
From that covering I lifted him out. I held him. I held all of him.  
Taking place then, during such an ordinary day in such an ordinary apartment, was a momentous feast - a banquet of sensation - and we, with such healthy appetites, were the only two in attendance.  
  
I didn't eat for a full day afterwards. This half-eaten croissant on my plate is the first thing I've had in the last twenty-four hours. That and the coffee. Don't worry about me, I'll finish it, but first I need to be done with the story; what happened to me almost made me afraid to taste anything else, because I felt as if I would never reach such heights of bliss again, not even with him. Experiences can be surpassed, downplayed, you can have other separate experiences similar in intensity - but they are _non-repeatable._ That's what I was afraid of.  
  
But no, I've since concluded that it's not a sad thing. Experiences might be non-repeatable, but we as humans have so much time and life to amass more of them. You have to admit it, that's lovely.  
  
Back to us. There he was, the scent of his body making my mouth water; he looked down between my legs and smiled, having found something that caught his interest, and with his right hand claimed it as his to touch and adore. I reached down and stroked him too, with my left hand, and he let out a sudden groan - a sound so gorgeous I felt faint just hearing it - before pushing me back down and trailing his lips down my chest, my stomach, all the way down, peeling off my boxers at last so that he could take me in his mouth.  
  
"You don't have to..." I started, and didn't finish, because I knew that he could tell that I was lying. I wanted him to, very, very much. No worries, he said, except in more words, in between licking me clean and driving me into delicious insanity. No worries, he told me, he didn't want me to be so tense but I was to tell him if I didn't want any more - sex is meant to be like dessert, light and pleasant and never compulsory.  
  
"Dessert?" I asked amidst gasps and the arch of my back.  
  
"Dessert," he nodded, and that was that as he purred and caught what he'd coaxed out of me in his palm; when he licked it he smiled again. "lovely and clean," he said; later he told me that he'd keep nothing but pineapples and orange juice around if I'd continue to taste that way, but at the time it just made me blush in disbelief until he reached down and candied himself with it. He glistened faintly in the light, slippery and hot as he propped me up on a spare pillow, pressing insistently - heh, _ouvre-moi ta porte_ , indeed - ready to fill me up with my sweetness and his.  
  
...  
  
"Do you want more?" he whispered. His breath tickled my ear, his heart was pounding like mad - I could hear it, almost - and his hair brushed over my cheeks and I could smell its perfume.  
  
"Oh yes," I cried out. "oh yes please, yes. I do, yes."  
  
...  
  
Just remembering it is making me blush. Pardon me.  
  
Looking into his face was almost too much for me then, so I closed my eyes and waited for him to take me wherever he wished. His hand roamed down, spread my legs further apart, lifted me just slightly so that my heel brushed against the skin of his back, whispering at me to grasp his shoulders. I could clutch as hard as I wanted, he said, but I didn't want to hurt him any more than he wanted to hurt me.  
  
Guy didn't really say anything or make much noise, save for a quiet moan as his hand tightened briefly on my thigh. It was a very small sound, for sure, I was much louder than he was - but there was something about that tone, something that I almost never hear from him. I think I mentioned his voice being low and grave earlier? It was really more a sigh than a moan, except that his exhale had a _melody_ of sorts. Just like that man in the red coat, I guess, exactly like his voice, except that Guy's voice turned me on like nothing had before. It was anaesthetic for what actually should have hurt some; but I felt no pain, only completion. Then he lay down across me, his face buried between my neck and shoulder, his hands on me. We weren't moving while we lay there together; no, it was the bed, the floor, the world that moved us, ever so gently and deeply, up and down, side to side, rocking like a boat headed towards its destined port.  
  
So warm. So quiet, so beautiful. Never heard such silence.  
Sure there were sounds, from both of us, but aside from the important ones - our heartbeats - they were otherwise like lost transmissions in air. It felt so much like a dream. Even now I'm sitting around wondering if it really happened, despite having his marks on my body, the ghost of his touches against my skin, the heat and scent of him locked inside me. His hair came down loose past his face and down to his shoulders, becoming tangled again from effort and my fingers running through them. Not only was he kind enough to fill me as deeply and hotly as he could manage, responding to my every plea, he was good enough to keep count of how many times he did so, right there on my body. I counted. Over fifty, some of them faded by the time I got home - he thrusted so deep and slow, pausing every now and then to just let me feel the throbbing of his pulse down there, or to let me rain kisses upon his face and neck. We were both panting, hot and heavy, our voices counterpoint to one another.  
  
"Thomas," he gasped out, more than once. Just that. _Thomas_. My name, the end-syllable stressed and drawn-out - _Tho-mah_ \- my name his sighs of ecstasy, his cry of love.  
  
He licked me. Some of that red wine he'd dripped on me had remained, by then dried onto a faint smudge on my skin, and he licked me clean again. He exuded the scent of whatever his tastebuds came into contact with, that was to say primarily myself; but I was tasting him too, nipping into the skin of his neck, his shoulders, tongue teasing over his adam's apple. He really seemed to like that in particular, he giggled, he was _ticklish._ Adorable. The taste of his body, the aroma of the red perfuming his hair and all of him - then I knew what love tasted like, wine, nicotine and well-washed skin; as for the taste of myself he seemed to be enjoying it as well, his tongue roaming down my neck, over my earlobe, flickering over my bottom lip.  
  
Once he rocked his hips a little too hard and I shut my eyes, fighting against the mixed assault of pleasure and pain. "Look at me," he pleaded, kissing over my eyes in response. "look at me, please, Thomas, I've wanted you to look at me for so long, hold me, please..."  
  
All those months, all those years of wanting, reconciled at last in the union of our bodies and souls.  
I remember his fingers. Laid softly in mine, clutching and tightening now and then, nails digging in slightly but never enough to make me bleed. Doves pecking.  
  
...  
  
He made me come. I almost feel like I might never come again as he made me yesterday.  
  
Ever had a liquor-filled chocolate before? One of those ones with a firm glossy shell encasing whiskey or Irish Cream or something like that? He made me feel like that, like when you pop one of those in your mouth and the heat of it begins to soften the exterior of the chocolate, maybe with you rolling it around your mouth a little to get used to the richness - and just seconds later, when you bite and feel the thick sweet liquor gush over your tongue and slip down your throat and it's _heavenly._ Just like that. His name barely left my mouth as I tensed and felt the climax - I almost didn't want to say anything, that name was too sweet to release from my tongue and lips - but eventually I did. They say an orgasm feels like dying, an ecstasy too much for the mind to take in one go; something has to collapse in return otherwise it just wouldn't be _fair._ But that's not what I felt at all. On the contrary I felt like something deficit had been patched up again, band-aid for my soul - I felt his warmth deep inside and I felt renewed, like he had kissed spring within me into existence. My body was worn out but inwardly I was very awake, my mind open and at peace. His fingers trembled, tightened around mine - he moaned into my neck - and then it was over, his essence a balm coating the depths of me.  
  
As we finished a summer rain began, light and glittering in the sun. The French windows were ajar and the white-laced curtains fluttered in the wind, concealing and revealing us to the world.  
Out there on the balcony we let the rain wash the plate and glasses.  
  
...  
  
From _his_ warm hand _my_ hand I withdrew, as softly as I could manage, so that I might caress his cheek.  
  
...  
  
He was quiet for a while, laid atop me as our bodies relaxed and cooled. As soon as he left my body he helped me sit up, reached for the covers and bundled us both in, pressing me close to his chest; he was murmuring that soon he'd have to wash again, and if I wanted to I could join him this time. Hmm? Did I say yes to that? You know something, I don't actually remember if I answered at all. I was too tired for that, I just wanted to lean against him and bury myself in his smell and watch the rain. What I do remember, though, was leaning against his shoulder and asking whether he thought this was nice.  
  
"If this isn't nice, then what is?" he answered me, all sleepy and quiet, and then he smiled and it hurt me deep inside in a very, _very_ good way.  
  
In a way different to him entering me, I mean. Though that was wonderful, too.  
  
For two hours or so we slept in each other's arms, and if I should ever die, I want nothing more than to drown in the memory of that time.  
He fell asleep with his lips against my forehead in a trust so gentle I could do nothing but relax; we let the darkened room drink up the sunset and evening, till the slow-rising nocturnal city below roused us awake.  
  
I asked if he heard Paris in his dreams.  
Half dreaming still he murmured _I love you_ , then I had to whisper it too, licking onto his body my sincere _je t'ai toujours aimé, je t'aime, and je t'aimerai toujours_ \- past, present, future, the passage of our shared time interlinked.  
  
...  
  
We kissed. We kissed a lot, everywhere.  
Everywhere, except for the mouth, where it mattered the most. I tried to kiss him there at some point when we were making love, and he turned away from me; explained that he wouldn't go that far unless we were both absolutely, one-hundred percent sure that we would see and kiss no other. Curiously old-fashioned, some might think so - I can see that _you_ think so - if not downright paradoxical, and it took me some time to think about it, too.  
  
Oh yes. I did say to him that I'd think about it.  
He liked it that I was mulling over the issue. Made him feel that I was taking this just as seriously as he was, he said.  
  
I think... somehow, that he was trying to leave me a way out, just in case I didn't want to be tied down. What is a kiss? It's a meeting, a sampling, an affirmation. Because I hadn't managed to taste Guy's lips thoroughly - I licked there a few times, but only faintly - despite what happened I have only an incomplete bouquet of what the taste of him entailed. By stopping at that point he was giving me both a reason to come back, so that I might get that final touch - and a reason to not feel forced or obliged, so that I wouldn't feel as if I'd given away too much of myself to him or vice versa. Once I'd reasoned that far, it was _considerate_ more than anything. I mean, literally the first thing I told you about Guy was that we've been long-time friends, no? Trust is the only thing that becomes firmer and more delicate at the same time the more time you spend building it up. Of course we had to take that into account.  
  
As for what he wanted out of the two options, though, it was quite obvious. When night came it was time for me to leave, and he helped me dress, his touch light as he did up my buttons and straightened my shirt; as he helped to tie my tie he was gentle, patting where the knot sat loosely by my neck, and the sky inky-turquoise outside gleamed his eyes dark blue. Guy never looked quite as reluctant and pensive as back then, when he was letting me go; when he was done with my tie he trailed his thumb over my lower lip and looked as if he wanted to say something, though he never did. What he'd already said was enough.  
  
Before I left we finished the last of the wine together. What was left of it filled one glass.  
We took turns at first, then rotated the glass and sipped from where the other had sipped. So it goes.  
  
...  
  
I want to tell him that I want to kiss him on the mouth.  
  
...  
  
Yeah. I do.  
I'm a perfectionist. I want to take the plunge. I want more.  
  
Perhaps we might stay together until the end of our lives; perhaps we might not. I know that to either of us, strictly speaking, it is just one relationship out of countless potential others. But we live here in the present and Guy's _here_ with me, he is _real,_ he is _mine_ ; I'm going to reach out and take his hand in mine, and we're going to journey on together for as long as we can. There's my heart's desire, it was here all along. Never lost it, never will lose it. Not for anything.  
  
You can't say I learnt nothing from the past thoroughly-bizarre couple of days.  
It's like what that man taught me. Change is organic. Relax, close your eyes and flow alongside life - and when an angel comes knocking on your door, for heaven's sake _don't_ be dressed in nothing but underwear.  
  
...  
  
Tonight Guy's working as an overnight DJ. It's in a club that we both go to and hold gigs in. We play there together sometimes, but tonight he's alone. When he gets out of his shift at four o'clock in the morning tomorrow I'm going to be there, right there by the front doors, and then I'm going to pick him up and take him home.  
I'll ask first whether I can stay or if he wants to come to mine. But regardless of the answer, even if it's a no either way - I'm going to see him to the door, hold his hand, look at him in the eyes -  
  
\- and I'll tell him, by _God_ I will, that I want to kiss him on the mouth.  
You're my witness. May angels strike me down if I don't. If he says yes, I won't lose any time in kissing him right there and then, and I hope that he will be as eager as I am and that his lips will complete for me the taste of love.  
  
Tomorrow, before the sun rises, I will know for sure. Yeah. I will. I've a wonderful feeling about this.  
  
And - and, you know something.  
  
...  
  
My life is going to change.  
  
I can feel it.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't actually read anything label!AU, hence my hesitation tagging it as such.  
> I have a high respect for magical realism - Murakami, for example, is one of my favourite writers - and at some point I just wanted to attempt something in the genre. I like this mostly for Crydamoure's diction; he _had_ to sound ethereal and melodious, and English isn't my first language so its prosody is not always obvious to me, but ultimately I think he came out okay. Much thanks to my betareaders who advised me on the flow of his language - I am ever so grateful!
> 
> **References/notes for those who like that kind of thing:**
> 
> * The birds fed by Crydamoure are two magpies for joy, and two white doves for eternal love.  
> * Authentic bisque has the shells of its constituent crustaceans ground very finely into a powder and added to thicken the mixture, hence Crydamoure asking whether the 'bisque has shells'.  
> * I first put down 'French Euros' instead of 'banknotes' towards the end of the first section, but later decided that mentioning any specific time was a mistake (France switched to the Euro in 1999) - so this can take place at any time of their youth that you wish.  
> * The record Thomas lent Guy was intended to be Primal Scream's 'Screamadelica'.  
> * The star on Crydamoure's cheek was based off something I read off the Rolling Stones interview with Daft Punk - when Guy played in Darlin' that was part of his stage get-up.  
> * I was thinking very heavily of 'Pierrot Lunaire' when I was writing this; you could probably read this as an AU of that AU! XDDD ' _Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de Dieu_ ' and ' _Je suis dans mon lit_ ' are both from the lyrics of ' _Au Clair de la Lune_ ', a song featured in PL as well.  
> * _Thomas_ means 'twin'. _Guillaume_ means 'will/pride' etc which I interpreted as 'free will', contrasted with _Emmanuel_ which means 'God is with us'. I like the theological conflict or reconcilation between human free will and the existence of God; I will explore that in more depth one day maybe.  
>  * A _cloche de buerre_ is a 'butter bell'/'French butter dish' involving a base filled with water and a pot filled with butter which is then placed open-side down onto the base. The water creates a watertight seal and keeps the butter fresh for a long time, as long as the water is changed often.  
>  * I was thinking of Rubis Chocolate Wine when I wrote about the wine and the effect that Crydamoure's Midas-touch had on it; Rubis isn't made of pinot noir though and it's fortified wine, not a straight red. I guess I note it here because Rubis is _absolutely delicious_ rather than it being relevant to the actual story! Bahaha. xD
> 
> Please comment if you liked it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wanderjahre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1593383) by [magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/magistralucis)




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